Busy Mr. Stupid

There once was a man who was so busy that he hated eating meals. "What a waste
of time," he would think, resenting every bite.

He would try different things to use mealtime more effectively.
First, he would read the newspaper over breakfast. Over lunch, he
would make a shopping list. At dinnertime, he would watch the news
on television. Still, he was not satisfied. He knew deep down that
he was still wasting time.

One Sunday he had a brilliant idea. "If I could eat all my meals
in one day, I could save lots of time by not cooking during the
week. Think of all the work I could do then!"

Right away he started cooking a huge feast. Seven breakfasts,
seven lunches, and seven dinners in one day. He scrambled fourteen
eggs, fried up fourteen sausages, toasted fourteen pieces of bread,
and gobbled them down with fourteen cups of coffee and fourteen
glasses of orange juice. By the end of the giant meal, he was slowing
down and near to bursting. But he satisfied himself in the knowledge
that he had enough hearty breakfasts for the whole week inside him,
all in only one day.

By the time he finished breakfast, it was nearly lunchtime. "Can't
stop now," he thought. "I've got the whole week to think of."

Taking a deep breath, he stood up and went slowly to the larder.
"Sandwiches," he thought, seizing a loaf of bread. He immediately
set about building a sandwich of gigantic proportions.

First came a layer of pastrami and dill pickle, on a thinly spread
bed of mayonnaise and mustard. Then it was bologna and gorgonzola
cheese. Next came a layer of tuna salad and sprouts. Then, in order,
it was peanut butter and jelly; coronation chicken; corned beef,
sauerkraut, and Thousand Island dressing; and finally, cream cheese
and plump black olives. "Seven layers for seven days," he thought
smugly. He wasn't the least bit hungry, but he stubbornly pushed
the whole sandwich into his mouth, bite by determined bite. As the
last mouthful forced its way down his gullet, he emitted a low groan,
and stumbled from the kitchen.

"I need a nap," he thought.

When he woke up several hours later, it was dinnertime. He felt
awful, but he was not about to swerve from his plan. If he could
eat seven dinners now, the whole week would be free. Setting his
jaw, he strode purposefully back into the kitchen. From the refrigerator,
he took out two whole chickens and three T-bone steaks. Turning
to the pantry, he fetched five potatoes, a couple of onions, and
a healthy handful of brussels sprouts. "Hmmm," he mused before grabbing
a sack of turtle beans. "That should do it," he said grandiloquently.

He turned on every bit of the cooker. All the burners on the stove
were burning, and the oven was fired up on full. Even the microwave
was called into duty, for the potatoes. While everything was cooking
he washed the dishes. "I won't be wasting my time doing any of this
during the week," he grinned.

Now came the hard part. He was less hungry than he'd ever been
in his life, and he was facing his biggest meal yet. Remembering
the week of freedom ahead, however, he entered into battle with
his dinner with all the gusto he could muster. It was pretty slow
going, but he refused to leave the table, and by midnight his plate,
though cold, was nearly empty. After one deep breath and one powerful
belch, he defeated the final forkful with some determined and scornful
chewing. "That's me set for the week," he groaned, proud and bloated.

The next morning went rather well. He felt neither hungry nor
stuffed, and with no breakfast to prepare, he was able to read the
entire newspaper, cover to cover. He went to work feeling more fully
informed than he had ever been. At lunchtime, when all his co-workers
went off to find something to eat, he instead took the opportunity
to clean his desk of clutter, organize his files, and update his
Rolodex. By the time his co-workers came back from lunch, he was
able to view them with a feeling of well-earned smug superiority.
Come dinnertime, he was feeling just a little bit hungry, but he
refused even to enter the kitchen. Instead, he settled into his
chair in the den, and wrote a long letter of complaint to the newspaper
concerning the state of the city's sewage system, and a brief note
to his mother, which read as follows:

Dear Mom,

Thought I'd just sit down and say hello, since I have a bit
of time at the moment, thanks to having already had dinner, yesterday.
How are you? I am fine. Well, talk to you soon. Bye bye.

Love,
Your son,
Me

By the next morning, the hunger was beginning to make itself clear.
He furtively glanced at his box of cereal in the cupboard, but he
narrowed his eyes and stubbornly refused to consider the matter any
further. Picking up his newspaper, he found it just a little hard
to concentrate on the headlines, and angrily turned past the recipe
of the day, which seemed to leap off the page at him in a most annoying
fashion. All morning at the office his stomach rumbled, a minor aggravation
that he assumed would pass in time. At lunchtime, he thought about
starting a novel that he had been interested in reading for some time,
but found he was not in the mood. Instead, he examined his files to
make extra sure they were properly organized, and looked out of his
window at all the people wasting time getting lunch.

The afternoon was a washout. He was having a great deal of difficulty
concentrating on his work, and spent most of his time trying to
avoid thinking about how hungry he was getting. Unfortunately, the
harder he tried not to think about food, the larger it loomed, until
silly thoughts like this desk has nothing to do with food began
to dominate his mind.

On his way home from work he thought about what he wanted to do
with his free dinnertime period. The possibilities should have seemed
endless, but he felt oddly short on enthusiasm, and ended up mowing
the lawn and feeling vaguely bitter. At bedtime he consoled himself
and his hollow belly with reassuring thoughts about efficiency.

By the fifth day, things were getting pretty dire. He struggled
in to work and flopped into his chair, and did little but stare
slack-jawed at the walls. When he was invited by several co-workers
to lunch, he snapped at them, saying "No! I'm too busy! Thank you
no!"

All day Saturday he laid on the couch, overcome by lethargy. All
he could do was think about tomorrow. Sunday. Food day. By evening,
concerned at his lack of productivity, he dragged himself up and
set about the long-delayed task of organizing his stamp collection.
He had barely gotten as far as opening the heavy collection book,
however, when he fainted, face-first right into a series of Alderney
150th Anniversary stamps celebrating the Channel Islands' only working
railway.

When he woke up, it was Sunday, and there were "Garrison Island"
stamps celebrating the railway's role in fortifying Alderney stuck
all over the left side of his face. "Fuck this!" he realized. "I've
been such a fool!"

He enjoyed his meals much more after that, and gave up stamp collecting
in favor of going to the races.